Give him a chance - Chapter 2

"All we hear is Radio gaga, Radio goo goo, Radio gaga…"
"Fuck, Arthur ! Let me in ! I'm in my pajamas ! I need my breakfast !"

Alfred was hitting the door for at least fifteen minutes, deciding he now hated this landing with all his heart.

"Euh… Bonjour."

The teenager froze. There wasn't really someone who was seeing him like this, wasn't it?

He turned around, to see in front of him a blond man, with long curly hair in a ponytail. He seemed to have forgotten to shave for a few days, and he was wearing fancy clothes. He had a beautiful bouquet in hand, and he looked incredibly… chic.

"Why are you knocking on the door of Arthur at eight the morning, petit?"

He was definitely not British, and was pure shit with his English. His voice was suave, but his accent heavy, and he spoke sooo slooowly.

"He threw me out when I said his music was shit" Alfred explained, annoyed.
"Oh… You sure should have at least have criticized les Sex Pistols, non ?" the man said, grimacing.
"Actually, it was Queen."
"Aw… You should be happy to be again alive."

Alfred looked at the man, sighing.

"Man, you sure are hopeless in English. What was this 'again' for ?"
"Excuse, gamin, I'm French," the man explained, annoyed. "We say your 'still' and your 'again' in the same way, and I never know who I must be using."
"And if it was only that…" Alfred grumbled. "I listen to you for not even two minutes, and I already want to commit suicide."
"Les sirènes du port d'Alexandrie, chantent encore la même mélodie, wowo, la lumière du phare d'Alexandrie, fait naufrager, les papillons de ma jeunesse!"

The man sighed as he heard Arthur singing such a shameful song at the top of his voice in the flat, and knocked at the door, not wanting to stay with this ungrateful teenager any longer.

"Arthur! It's me, Francis! I know you're here, I heared you sing ! Can you open the door, s'il te plaît?"

A few seconds later, the door opened, to show an utterly red British man.

"Haha, Francis… So… you heard me sing ?" Arthur said, more than embarrassed.

He turned all shades of red at once. Francis laughed, and poked his forehead.

"Happy to see that you like the CDs I lend you, but even for a French man it's dishonourable to sing some Claude François. Even if you sing well my Cloclo!"
"Just… shut up. "

Alfred took advantage of the fact that the door was open to rush in the flat. The teen lolled in an armchair, in front of the TV, releasing a sigh of satisfaction. Arthur took Francis to the kitchen, far off from the American boy.

"Cadeau," Francis said, giving the bouquet to Arthur. "You sure make a really good Claude François. There is actually in France a lot of TV shows trying to find the new Cloclo, you should try."

The British man became even redder as he took the flowers.

"How long will this surname be stuck on me ?" he asked.
"At least a month. But I preferred your precedent surname, if you know what I mean…"
"It's really the only sentence you're able to say without mistakes" Arthur sighed.

The Frenchman giggled, and came closer to Arthur. Before the English man could even notice it, the other had grabbed his ass.

"What are you doing ?" inquired the blasé English man.
"Why do you even ask ?"
"Wait, the brat is in the living room…"
"Make him leave" Francis whispered in Arthur's ear, leaning closer in the most mellifluous voice he had.
"Hey hey hey, wait… I… Stop this !" the British man managed to shout.

He broke away from the embrace, and popped his head around the door, watching the angry teen on the armchair.

"What?" the teen groaned, focused on the TV.
"Go buy some… Pastries… In the French pastry shop. The one which that's on the other side of the district."
"What? But I'm in my pajamas, I don't have money, and I don't have a clue where the fuck it is!"
"There are a few coins in my wallet, in my trench. And go… by foot. And walk around. And take your time. One hour should be enough."

Arthur peeped back in the kitchen, and made an awful smile.

"Well, count two hours."

…..…..…..

Alfred finally managed to go back to the flat, two hours and thirty minutes later. Just in time for lunch. He had the box of French pastries under an arm, and a half-empty drink from McDonald's in the other hand.

Francis had already left the apartment, and just left behind the bouquet and the scent of an expensive perfume. Alfred threw the now empty wallet onto the couch, and went into the kitchen, looking for his caretaker.

"I found your pastries" the American said as he sat at the kitchen's table.
"Sweet" Arthur answered, looking away from the stove. "What did you get?"

Alfred opened the box, disclosing its half-emptiness.

"No idea, but man, they were good."
"You ate them ?"
"I was lost and hungry, dude! Thank god, I managed to find a McDonald's, because I was thirsty too."
"You ate them ? You really ate them ?" Arthur stuttered. "You didn't think I already hated your guts enough, so you had to eat my pastries too?"
"Cool, man… There is still the half of the box."

The British man looked closer, and finally smiled.

"Aw, sweet, there's still an éclair au café. My favourite one." Arthur explained, pointing out a long brown pastry.

Alfred watched it for a few seconds. And he took the éclair and shoved it into his mouth.

"If it was your favorite…" Alfred grinned.
"You little jerk. You didn't dare…"
"Wantit back?"
"I don't know if you did that on purpose or if you're simply a retard."

The phone in the living-room rang, giving Alfred a chance to survive. The British man took the rest of the pastries, and went answer the phone. The teenager, bored, decided it was a great occasion to visit the flat. So, the brave Alfred and a sandwich set off to explore the apartment, in search of something compromising about the British man who didn't do anything else than grumble, yell, and sulk since he arrived.

Arthur had visibly managed to tidy the guest room up, the only thing Alfred would have to do was put his clothes in the chest of drawers. And now that he had the time to watch more closely, the teenager regretted that he hadn't taken some posters with him, because the walls were covered with posters of weird old English bands with weird names and even weirder make-up. And some were really scary. Like the one right in front of his bed. Man, he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight.

Next to the guest room was the bathroom. There was water everywhere on the floor (Arthur should have taken a shower before Alfred came back), and it was hard for Alfred to cross the tiny room without soaking his socks. Next to the sink, Alfred found too much make-up for a single man, three bottles of temporary green hair dye, two toothbrushes, and a substantial stock of condoms. Okay. His caretaker was definitely bizarre.

Alfred then peeped in Arthur's room. Contrary to what Alfred thought, the sheets were in a mess, the nightstand open, and it reigned a scent that was… peculiar. Alfred was sure he had already smelled this in his mother's bedroom. But he would check this room later.

The last room (like Arthur was still in the living-room) was the office. Like always, the room was clean, and all Arthur's junk was sorted and in its place. Two guitars were hanging on the walls, and an enormous collection of DVDs, CDs, and vinyls were proudly exposed. On the desk was an old computer and a laptop, along with a mountain of documents in lots of colored folders. The red ones were labeled "Bills", the orange: "Important stuff", and the yellow: "Don't throw, it can be useful someday" (It was full of flyers and plans to survive to a zombie apocalypse). The indigo folders were full of annotated music sheets and lyrics. (Very difficult songs, by the way. Who learned such complicated lyrics?) Underneath, Alfred found purple folders, with a lot of written and printed stuff. The texts seemed to be about mode, personal problems and gossips about stars (At this point, Alfred decreed that nothing could make Arthur even more weird). There were also green folders, with a lot of cut out articles and written stuff in a language Alfred didn't understand, and some blue ones who were labeled "Book Project".

"What'e you doing, brat?"

The teenager jolted, and dropped the blue folder on the desk.

"I was… exploring."
"In my office? Disturbing my documents for work?"
"Dude, aren't you unemployed?" Alfred asked, trying to remember what his mother told him.
"That's what your stupid wanker of a mother believes. We see each other three fucking times, and she thinks she knows my whole bloody life." Arthur snapped, visibly pissed.

Alfred shrugged while sitting on the comfortable chair.

"Well, you should know each other pretty well, she wouldn't have sent me here otherwise…" the teen said.
"No. We've literally only seen each other three times. Your aunt's marriage, great-uncle funerals, and grand-father funerals. And I hardly remember her, I was completely drunk."

The American boy sighed in despair. His mother would be the cause of his death someday. Arthur could be a rapist or a serial killer, who knows? Well, if it was the case, Alfred should at least be polite and nice, maybe like that Arthur would do his… job… quickly and neatly.

"Uhmm… so, what's your work ?" the teen risked.
"I'm a journalist. I work for a stupid women's magazine and a French online magazine. It's boring. Well, at least, for the online magazine, the subjects are okay and I'm pretty free."

Alfred smiled disdainfully in front of Arthur's depressed face.

"Oh, and like all the journalists you hate your job but you dream of the day you'll become a newscaster and all that, don't you ?"
"Absolutely not," Arthur replied. "I want to work in the press, but for The Times."
"New-York Times?"
"You moron."

Alfred giggle, pleased with his joke.

"More importantly. You, a 'true Englishman and so on and so forth', work for a French magazine?"
"Yes, Francis found me this job. He works for it too, he presents recipes every month. He also does it for the women's magazine, and I correct his text every month, thanks to his poor English. I don't even know why they keep him… Maybe because having "La recette du mois du chef Francis: Les tripes à la mode de Caen" on the cover sounds good."
"So, you speak French?" Alfred inquired, a little lost.

Arthur only applauded quietly, one caterpillar raised.

"Bravo, Sherlock. I don't know how the bloody hell you found out my terrible secret."
"But Englishmen hate French people !"
"I do hate them, but I prefer for them to the little annoying American busy bodies, you see? By the way, I'm pretty happy, I won't see your face all day long anymore. I just had my teacher friend on the phone, he takes care of the applications for school. You begin tomorrow."

Alfred, who was radiant until then, bolt upright, thoroughly depressed.

"What the problem, kiddo? You don't like school?"
"I liked it, back in my old school. You know, the one where I knew the people and the people knew me?"
"Yeah, sure, you were the jock and all, and you were the most popular guy who had all the girls after him, correct?" Arthur said sarcastically.
"Exactly." Alfred snapped. "And I was the captain of the football team."

The British man chuckled, happy to see the younger one this angry over nothing.

"Don't worry, I anticipated that. I asked my friend about it, he said there were still places in the football team. You may be a part of it, if you want to."
"Really ?"
"Sure. Now, go in the kitchen or the chicken will burn."